Batman: The Man Behind the Grin
by Rowena Zahnrei
Summary: While working to stop a robbery, an explosion brings Batman closer than ever before to uncovering the true face of the man behind the grin. In Progress. Reviews Welcome!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own the Joker, Batman, or Gordon. Please don't sue me or steal my story. Thanks!

NOTE: This is my 60th story on this site! It's my first ever _Batman_ story, though, so I hope you'll let me know if I'm handling the characters all right. I may not be the fastest updater around, but I do finish all my stories and feedback is _always_ appreciated. Enjoy!

NOTE II: I've rated this story T, but if you are uncomfortable with the kind of stuff shown on programs like Law and Order: SVU and in the comics listed below, you might want to skip some of the upcoming chapters.

**BATMAN: The Man Behind the Grin**

**By Rowena Zahnrei**

_Inspired by: Batman #85 "Batman—Clown of Crime"_

_Detective Comics #168 "The Man Behind the Red Hood"_

_Batman: The Killing Joke_

_Batman: Going Sane_

_Batman: The Man Who Laughs_

"…I wish that for just one time  
You could stand inside my shoes  
And just for that one moment  
I could be you

"Yes, I wish that for just one time  
You could stand inside my shoes  
You'd know what a drag it is to see you."

~Bob Dylan  
_Positively __4th Street_

**Prologue**

A maniac's laughter ricochets around the dim, cavernous space—a decrepit, decaying warehouse, one of many that line the seedy docklands of Gotham Harbor. Outside the building's shattered windows, lightening flashes. The blinding bolts highlight the rain that sheets down from the curdled nighttime sky and puddles on the stained concrete floor.

Clanging footsteps from above—a catwalk! Two shadows, one long and lean, the other caped and menacing, race across its treacherous length. The slender man is in the lead, his chalk-pale face stretched into a broad, toothy rictus. Nimbly, he climbs over the safety railing and leaps for the support pole nearly two meters away. The caped figure is forced to pause at the railing as his quarry's laughter cuts the air. "Toodles, Batsy!" he waves as he slides down the pole. "_Ha HA hee hee wheee!_"

Expressionless, the caped man pulls a grappling gun from his belt and fires the customized hook toward the ceiling. It catches an exposed, metal beam and he swings from its attached cable, his cape billowing behind him like the wings of a monstrous bat.

The Batman lands first, his boots splashing heavily in the pooled rainwater. His ghost-faced quarry cackles again and jumps the last few feet to the ground, performing a series of oddly graceful leaps and twirls as he edges for the side entrance, all the way at the other end of the building. The Batman watches for a moment, disgust etched in every line of his face. But the madcap dance is deceptive; there is method somewhere in this man's madness. The Joker is avoiding the deeper puddles, keeping his polished shoes as dry as possible. Batman crouches low, touching the dark water with his gloved finger and bringing it to his nose.

"Gasoline…" he realizes. The entire floor is coated with it and, as the rain pours in, the slick, flammable liquid is rising to the surface.

The Batman surges to his feet. "It's over, Joker," he proclaims, once more brandishing his grappling gun. "Stop where you are." The slim man rolls his eyes and giggles, but doesn't slow his dance. The exit is in sight now, his getaway car and waiting henchmen in view. Still, he can't resist hurling a taunt back at his pursuer.

"Oh please, Batman! After all these chases, all these games, the best you come up with is a hackneyed line like that? What's next? 'The gig is up?'" He laughs. "Well, whatever floats your boat, right? Don't let me rain on your hit parade! _Ha HA ha ha ha haa!_"

"This isn't a game, Joker," the Batman growls. "It never was. You have one chance. Hand over the Tetch microchips or—"

"Or what?" The Joker smirks as he sideswipes another puddle, his long purple coattails flaring out behind him in a demented parody of grace. "You'll harm me? Beat me to a bleeding pulp, then lock me away for years and years and years and years? Sorry, Bats, but that one's been tried too. And we both know you haven't the stomach for anything stronger."

The clown's eyes glint with mocking challenge, as hard and cold as chips of jade. Batman's square jaw clenches and he pulls the trigger of his gun. Quicker than he can blink, the cable wraps around its target, cutting into the Joker's arms as it pins them to his sides. The startled criminal overbalances and falls face-first into a reeking puddle, saturating his tailored suit and staining his spats with rust and tinted gasoline. The Batman leans over his fallen foe with the smallest of smiles.

"Don't tell me you didn't expect that," he says. But before the Joker can respond, a burly hood in a clown mask hoves into view, followed by six more. Almost simultaneously, a siren wails and flashes at the far end of the warehouse and a small wall of uniformed police come crashing in through the main doors.

"No, no, not here. Not now…" the Batman mutters, and the Joker starts to cackle. With a grunt that's more annoyance than exertion, Batman hauls the sopping madman over his shoulder like a sack of soggy rice and fires his grappling gun into the air.

The standoff between cops and crooks lasts barely eight seconds. Joker's goons fire first and the cops respond quickly, their bullets sparking dangerously as they collide with decayed pipes and unshielded wiring. As projectiles fly, the grappling gun's metal cord wraps around what appears to be a gas pipe, but as it is forced to take on the weight of the Batman and his prize, the corroded metal begins to bend and crumble, revealing the bundled wires inside. Lightening flashes, thunder rumbles, and bullets ping, but the Batman continues to rise higher, gambling that the wires will hold until he and the Joker can reach the catwalk. Bound as he is, and slung unceremoniously over the Batman's cowled shoulder, the Joker cannot see the danger above. He sees only the hail of bullets beneath their dangling feet, and he taunts, "You better not let me fall, Batman! I fully intend to sue if, while in your care, my precious person is dropped, dented or otherwise damaged!"

Batman blocks out his foe's mocking tones. The cord has cut completely through the pipe now—they are dangling from only three fat wires that are drooping more dramatically every moment. It is clear they won't reach the catwalk before the cord slices them too. There is no choice but to descend.

"Wha—what do you think you're doing!" the Joker yelps as they sink closer to the gunfight. "UP! Go up! It's murder down there!"

But it's already too late. The wires snap in an explosion of sparks and the cord goes slack. As they fall, the Joker's struggling stops and he erupts into hysterical laughter. The Batman remains calm. He spreads his cape to deflect the flying bullets as he tucks himself into a roll, absorbing the impact of their fall with the Joker clasped securely in his arms. It is a skillful landing, technically flawless—but for one detail. As Batman and the Joker crash into the ankle-deep water, the sparking wires fall to ground directly beside them. Carried by the water, the electric current shoots through the foes with shocking violence. Their muscles clench, their hair crackles—and the stolen microchips secreted in the Joker's vest pocket burst to sudden, unexpected life…

…mere instants before the floating gasoline and its rising vapor explode in a fireball rush of flame and displaced air.

_To Be Continued..._


	2. 1

Thanks so much for the encouraging feedback! I've always been fascinated by the Joker-he's the only literary/movie character I've encountered yet that truly frightens me, and that's saying a lot. That's why I wanted to tackle him in this story, but it'll be a tough, emotionally difficult challenge. This is going to be a dark, rather strange story but if I can pull off all the twisty layers I have in mind I think it'll be worth it. I just hope you enjoy the ride! :)

**1.**

"Hee._ Hee hee. Ha ha ha ha ha. __HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Hee hee_."

Commissioner Gordon frowned as he peered through the window into the Batman's hospital room. Even laid up in a stark white hospital bed, his left arm and torso wrapped in gauze and bandages, there was nothing frail about this man. His damaged cape and suit had been draped across a chair but, for some shared, unspoken reason, the hospital staff had left him his mask.

"All the times he's been here, I don't think I've ever heard the Batman laugh," Dr. Moss commented from behind him. "It's really quite eerie."

"I thought you said he was unconscious," Gordon said. The balding doctor looked up from the chart he was flipping through. "He is," he said. "He's been laughing like this since he was brought in."

Gordon growled. "That damned Joker Juice! The fiend must have dosed him with it back at the warehouse. Did you—"

"We administered the antidote for the Joker's neurotoxin several hours ago, but it's had little effect. I sent some of his blood up to the lab for tests, but it'll be some time before there's any news."

Gordon rubbed his mustache in frustration, but nodded his understanding. "Any idea how long he'll be out? And the Joker, any word on him?"

"That electric shock these men experienced put quite a strain on their systems. Coupled with the explosion and the resulting burns…" The doctor shrugged. "It could be a while."

"Is that all you can say?" Gordon fumed, his frustration starting to get the better of him. "You doctors are as bad as politicians! Never a straight answer among you!"

The doctor straightened, peering down at Gordon over his thin spectacles. "Frankly, Commissioner, it's a miracle these two men are alive at all. As for their healing, that will happen in its own time. Now, if you don't mind, I do have other patients to attend to. This hospital does not revolve around the Batman and his victims, no matter how often they fall at our doorstep."

Gordon scowled at the doctor's departing back, then spun on the uniformed officers he'd brought with him from the precinct.

"Conrad, Johnson, go stand guard over the Joker's room. Mendez, Pearce, you stay here. I want everyone, _everyone_ to be thoroughly searched before they pass through those doors. Doctors, nurses, no exceptions. There'll be no rescue or murder attempts here on my watch, got it?"

"Yes sir, Commissioner," the officers nodded, and took their places. Gordon grunted his satisfaction and headed toward the stairs, only to be sidetracked when he spotted a stocky detective on his way up the corridor.

"O'Hara!" Gordon called. "So, you're back. What can you tell me about those microchips the Joker was after? Any ideas what he wanted them for?"

The detective looked tired. "We don't have many leads as of yet, Commish," he admitted. "Them science geeks over at Tetch Labs are keepin' pretty tight lipped about the nature of their projects-takin' their cue from that Jervis character in charge. Kept goin' on about intellectual property an' patent rights like _we_ were the thieves. All we could get outta them was somethin' about…erm…" He pulled out a crumpled notepad and shuffled through its rain-wrinkled pages. "Remote impulse control in rats," he read.

"Impulse control…" Gordon tapped his chin, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Yeah, I think it's somethin' to do with, like, controlin' the rats' impulse to eat," the detective explained. "Sorta like an electronic diet pill or somethin'."

"Impulse control," Gordon repeated, his frown deepening. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this one. Of all times for the Batman to be out of commission! I could really use his input about now."

The detective crossed his beefy arms. "Hey, Commish… No offense, but why're you so hung up on that masked vigilante? By all accounts, he's as messed up as those weirdo freaks he hauls in."

Gordon shrugged. "Maybe. But I'll tell you this. No one knows the Joker's mind better than he does. No one. And we'll need that level of understanding if we're to figure out what this lunatic had planned for those microchi—"

A horrible, strangled roar ripped through the antiseptic air of the hospital, followed by the distant tinkling crash of metal impacting with glass. Gordon's head snapped up. The officers he'd just sent out were pelting toward him down the tiled corridor.

"Commissioner!" Johnson was shouting. "Commissioner, it's the Joker! One minute he was unconscious and the next— He went berserk, sir! Grabbed the chair…shattered the mirror, the window, and…"

"And what, Johnson?" Gordon demanded. "Has the Joker been restrained?"

Johnson swallowed, her dark eyes wide with guilt, anger, and a hint of fear. "No, sir. I'm afraid I have to report that the Joker has escaped."

_To Be Continued..._


	3. 2

2.

The nightmare… He had awoken to a nightmare and it was still chasing him. Everywhere he turned, shadows loomed like monstrous bats. The dark figures he passed leered at him with mocking eyes, laughing, always laughing. The laughter vibrated his ears, rattled in his skull, harsh and cruel and hateful. So many faces…!

His legs hurt, his lungs were burning. He couldn't run anymore. Diving into an alley, he slammed his back against the wall and slid down, down, down into the sour, reeking darkness. There, with a sobbing cry, he felt the faces take him, carry him away with death-cold hands along a stream of memories that were not his own…

_"Mom! Mom, are you here? Please, Mom… You've gotta answer me…"_

_The ancient high-rise was condemned, falling apart. Moisture dripped down the peeling walls, mold climbed up and through the exposed asbestos insulation. The floor had rotted in patches, and it was difficult to know where to step. But he kept going, doing his best to avoid the rat droppings, the bat droppings, the human waste and vomit that carpeted the narrow corridor._

_There was no electricity, no heat. The moans and sighs and sobs that choked the sour air were his only guide as he climbed the slippery, urine-soaked stairs. And then, there they were. Bodies without souls, ragged and wretched, packed together like slaves in a dungeon of their own making. The smell was worse here, the sounds, the half-mad laughter… _

_"Mom?"_

_The meth-heads didn't move, just stared straight up or straight ahead with their empty, bloodshot eyes. He picked his way through, searching the faces. But, in the dark they all looked the same. Male, female, young, old, there was no difference. They were just bodies, huddled bodies, hiding behind lank hair and brown, bleeding grins._

_"Mom, please!" he cried, fiercely wiping away the tears he couldn't stop. "I know you're here. You gotta know my voice, Mom. You gotta know who I am!"_

_"I know who you are. You're that stringbean's brat, ain'tcha?"_

_A shadow broke away from the wall, bald and looming. The man's face was cloaked in darkness; all he could see were his eyes, and the gleam of his silver tooth when he smiled._

_"Where's my Mom," he demanded, struggling not to show his fear. This man carried a knife, he'd see him use it on rats and strays and customers who tried to trick or fool or double-cross him._

_"On an errand, my boy," he said in the smooth, cocky voice of a man who's climbed to the top of his own little world. "She can't expect something for nothing. If she can't pay in cash there are…other uses for her."_

_He swallowed. "When will she be back?"_

_"I wouldn't wait up." The man smiled his cruel, silver smile. "Go home, boy. This place isn't for you. Yet."_

_"Bastard..."_

_"What was that?" the man snarled._

_"You're a bastard!" he yelled, too angry to be afraid. "Just you wait till I'm big. I'll pay you back. You'll see!"_

_"Kid," the man said, "trust me. You ain't gonna live that long."_

_The knife was in the monster's hand before he could blink and a jolt of real terror surged through him. Acting fast, he grabbed the nearest meth-head and shoved her at the man. Then, he ran. He ran down the stairs and out into the cold, sweet-smelling street. He couldn't go home. There was no point without his mom there, and besides, that scumball knew where he lived. So he just ran. Ran past the junkies and the alcoholics, past the homeless schizophrenics lost in strange and frightening realities all their own. And as he ran, he began to laugh. He'd told that jerk off and made it out with his life. At that moment, he felt free, like he could do anything, be anything, have anything he wanted. And what he wanted was to make that bastard pay. Not for his mother, although that was still part of it. He wanted to make him pay for pulling that knife on him, for making him feel so afraid…_

_

* * *

_

"Mom... Mother. Father... _No!_"

The nightmare… He had awoken to a nightmare and it was still chasing him. He turned and tossed on the starched hospital pillow, his thoughts bursting like fireworks with no coherence, no pattern. All he saw were images, unfamiliar memories he knew were not his own...

_An elevated train curves through the nighttime city, a man in the seat across from him holds out his stethoscope, letting him listen to his heartbeat._

_Father…_

_But Father was dead. Two gunshots in the street. Two roses on the snow, on the grave where Father and Mother were buried together under the headstone…_

WAYNE

He sat up with a gasp and reached up to touch his face. A mask, cool and smooth, met his searching fingers, and he stared down at his hands in confusion. Blunt fingers, thick, muscular arms…

And there, on the chair, an armored suit and cape as black as the night.

He practically heard the lightbulb click on in his brain, and he realized he understood. He understood it all.

The laughter bubbled up inside him, uncontainable, uncontrollable. It brought the nurses running, needles in hand, and as they pumped the tranquilizing drugs into his veins his hysterical laughter calmed enough to let him get a few words in between the chuckles.

"It's a dream, it's a dream. Oh ho! It's a dream come true…"

* * *

"A nightmare," he grunted, only dimly aware that someone was there, smoothing a warm, damp cloth over his forehead. "All those people, in the dark… That man…"

"It's all right, puddin'."

It was a woman's voice, shrill yet somehow gentle. He felt her fingers stroking his hair, calming, soothing. "The big bad Batman can't get you no more. You're with me now, yeah? And I know how to make everythin' all better."

Warm lips on his cheek, the sharp chemical scent of greasepaint and hairspray—

He opened his eyes.

"Gah!" he exclaimed, pushing her away as he shot to his feet. His memory was still hazy, disjointed. But that woman, dressed up like a porcelain doll with her white-painted face, her black lipstick and skintight costume…

"I know you," he muttered, casting his gaze around the room. It was large and cluttered with brightly colored boxes and posters and broken arcade games. Fun House mirrors lined one wall, and he approached them cautiously, not quite trusting his eyes.

"No…"

"It's only a little burn, hun," the woman said, coming up behind him, her fingers brushing the side of his head where the green hair was singed and brittle. "Mommy'll make it better."

"Don't touch me," he said and pulled away from her, stepping closer to the mirrors.

Wide, jade-green eyes stared back at him, slender fingers reached up to touch a long, chalk-pale face, its muscles stretched into a permanent grin.

The sight was so impossible, so repulsive, he had to laugh. A horrified, hysterical laugh that tore from his gut like a sob.

"Mistah J?"

He looked at her face, as distorted as his own in the mirror's wavy glass. "Harley," he said slowly. "You're Harley Quinn. And I… I am…"

A cloud of squeaking bats swarmed behind his eyes, blotting out the moon. He saw a cave, a high-tech computer console tucked in among the eerie rock formations. A man's face. Alfred…

"_You're_ comin' back to bed," Harley said, taking him by the arm. "Oh, my poor puddin'. That mean ol' Batsy must have walloped you harder than I thought."

He started to go with her, then yanked his arm away. Dashing to a purple trunk, he hefted it open and dug through its contents, pulling out socks, underwear, a dark shirt, dark pants, a broad-brimmed hat, and a long trench coat.

"Get out of here while I change out of this filthy hospital gown," he ordered. Harley looked like she was about to protest, but a glare from him sent her scurrying. He dressed quickly with his eyes focused on the wall in front of him. He knew where he had to go, who he had to contact. There was only one person he could trust to look past this freakish body and recognize the man trapped inside.

Gathering his resolve, he took a final glance at his warped reflection, then strode from the room. Harley was there, crouched between her two hyenas. They stood and snarled when he appeared.

"Shh, babies," Harley said, stroking their bristly heads. "That's your Daddy. You know your Daddy."

Their growls deepened, but they lay back down. Harley stood up and danced over to him. "Goin' somewhere?" she asked brightly.

"Out," he grunted. "I want you to stay here, Harley. Don't follow me."

"Oh, but can't I-?"

"No," he said firmly. "Stay here, and don't cause any trouble."

"Sheesh," he heard her say as he strode out the door, his thoughts still muzzy and disconnected. "'Stay here, and don't cause any trouble!' Honestly, babies, sometimes your Daddy can be as bossy as Batman."

_To Be Continued…_


	4. 3

Hi! OK, I know, I'm a terrible, horrible, terrible person for not updating this story sooner. I just wanted to assure you this story is definitely still alive, and I do fully intend to finish it, like I finish all my stories. It's just, with school and everything, it might take a while. Sorry!

This is a short update to help get things moving again. The next part will be up soon!

3.

Nights in Gotham are long, and dark. Especially when it rains.

Water sluiced off the brim of his hat. It ran down the side of his face in freezing rivulets, soaking his clothes beneath his trenchcoat.

The rain and the darkness made walking treacherous, but he had to walk, had to climb, had to stumble through the gnarled and looming trees to reach the craggy cliffside beneath Wayne Manor.

His long, narrow boots squelched in the mud, slid on the slippery leaves. He held out his arms for balance, scanning the ground for the tracks he knew were there.

The only light shone down from the manor's windows, and not from many of those. From the wood below, Wayne Manor seemed a foreboding place; a hulking castle, heavy with shadows and secrets.

The tracks were shallow, and not very well defined, but they glinted like sliver in the slick mud; two parallel lines cutting through the woods, only to stop abruptly a few feet from the sheer cliff face.

To the untrained eye, the tracks wouldn't signify much. Perhaps, a couple of teenagers had parked there for a few moments of privacy, or maybe a maintenance truck had gotten lost on its way to the manor and had to back out.

But, the man in the Joker's suit knew those tracks would lead him straight to the Bat Cave.

"Where's that damn vent..." he muttered, keeping his voice low as he ran his gloved hands over the rough stone. "Ah-!"

His hand slid into a crack in the rock. He brushed away the spiders and their sticky webs, his long fingers feeling for the release lever that would open the doors...

The lever gave way with surprising ease, and the side of the cliff opened, smooth and silent.

He stood for a moment, staring into the yawning blackness ahead. The air in there was still and bitterly cold against his wet skin. It brought with it the familiar stench of bats, guano, and engine exhaust.

He felt his skin stretch and knew he was smiling.

Quickly, he slipped inside, and the doors rolled closed behind him.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	5. 4

You guys are much too kind. Thanks, though. I hope you'll like this next chapter! Time to get this story moving! :)

4.

Dim light cast dark shadows up ahead. A deep voice rumbled and echoed down the passages, low and indistinct.

The man in the Joker's suit crept closer, peering over a rough ledge to the complicated control center below.

A man sat there, in front of a panel of monitors, talking into a small bluetooth phone tucked in his ear. This man was tall and thickly muscled with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a very expensive haircut. He spoke in a clear, resonant voice, and gave every indication that he felt perfectly comfortable and confident in his skin.

A powerful sense of displacement ripped though the man in the Joker's suit. He felt disembodied, like a ghost, watching himself from across the room. His memories were a fractured haze, but he knew, he _knew _that was _his _body down there, _his _voice,_ his _phone. This whole place, the Bat Cave, the Batmobile, the remembrances and mementos arranged just so in their glass cases...

This place was him, his core. And, if he was right-

"Now, now, Mr. Tetch- All right, all right, Dr. Tetch. It's no good jumping the gun," he heard the man below him say. "All I said was I may be _interested_ in investing. That's not a promise. Merely an...indication. I will, of course, have to see the facilities for myself before considering anything more concrete. And, naturally, I will expect a demonstration."

_Tetch..._

The name swirled around and through his swimming head, triggering faded, jumbled images.

He remembered, he'd been investigating Tetch Labs for something... Some kind of research, regarding impulse control. There was a sinister potential there, and a rumor that it had caught the Joker's interest. And if the Joker was involved, then...

A wave of memory crashed over him, and he clutched his head in his hands.

_Hammering rain and thunder... The sharp stench of gasoline... _

_The Joker's slender frame hung over his shoulder...so much heavier than he looked... Above him, a pipe was creaking...bending..._

_Freefall came to a jarring end. He glimpsed the Joker's bloodless face beside him, rictus grin twisted into a grimace, saw the sparks spitting and leaping from the madman's pocket..._

Microchips. The Joker had stolen microchips from Tetch Labs. But...why, what for...

_The pain of the electric blast had wrenched through every fiber of his body, searing his muscles, paralyzing his thoughts. He heard laughter somewhere in the darkness, but he couldn't see, couldn't move..._

The man in the Joker's suit stumbled back against the rough rock with a gasp. His thoughts felt just as disjointed as before, but now a streak of clarity shot through the chaos.

That was the Joker down below, wearing Bruce Wayne's skin. Somehow, the electric blast had activated the stolen Tetch microchips the madman had stowed in his pocket. The murderous clown now had control over _his _body, his secrets...and all the clout and coin of Wayne Industries.

And he, the man in the Joker's suit...he was alone, with nothing, trapped in the garbled mind of a freakish maniac.

"No..." he growled, glaring down at the imposter, watching him talk with his voice, smile with his face...

There had to be a way to fix this, to put things back, before the Joker had a chance to put into motion whatever devious plan he was cooking up. With Bruce Wayne's facilities, fortune, and friends behind him, there was no telling the havoc the lunatic could wreak. If he put on the mask and cowl-

An older gentleman strode into the cavernous space, a tray of sandwiches in his hands.

_Alfred!_

Just the sight of his loyal friend helped him pull his thoughts together. For the first time since opening his eyes in the hospital, he felt sure of himself, and his identity.

"I am Bruce Wayne," he whispered, needing to hear the words spoken aloud.

"Sandwiches, sir," Alfred said, his prim voice echoing slightly. "I had a feeling I would find you here. You've never been one to take the advice of a doctor."

"I'm not staying in bed, Alfred," the imposter said, selecting a sandwich from the neat pile on the silver tray. "I have far too much work to do. Besides, I feel fine."

"May I ask to whom you were speaking just now?"

"That was Jervis Tetch."

"Ah. The microchip man."

"I just set up an appointment to tour his laboratory tomorrow—as Bruce Wayne. I'm going to get to the bottom of this scheme, Alfred, before anyone else gets hurt."

"Then, sir, might I recommend your blue suit? I do think it brings out the color of your eyes, and if the lovely Dr. Steele is going to be there..."

"Playing matchmaker now, are you, Alfred?"

"I wouldn't presume, sir," Alfred said.

The two shared a friendly, amused look.

Alfred left the tray and started back up the stairs to the main house.

The man in the Joker's suit felt that awful displaced sensation again. The man down there was acting so natural. Could he have been wrong?

But then, he heard a low chuckle. It started soft, then began to grow and swell until it filled the entire cavern with a wild, echoing cacophony. Bats squeaked and squealed overhead, adding to the noise until the man in the Joker's suit thought his head would split.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The imposter leaned over the computer console and typed in a string of numbers – a phone number.

Beaming a wild grin that looked more than a little peculiar on Wayne's stern face, the imposter spoke into the phone. Far from Bruce Wayne's pleasant baritone, the voice he now used was higher, rougher, faster; a nasal tenor his observer recognized at once.

"Oh, Mr. Hat, do I have a tale for you! Ooh, hoo!"

A man's voice responded through the speaker in a tense whisper.

"Joker? I told you not to call me here!"

"My dear Hat, you wound me. To the quick! Just for that, I may decline to share my news with you."

"No... All right, but make it fast! If Dr. Steele should come in-"

"That's your problem, Hat, old top. You worry too much. Now me-"

"Can you please get to the point!"

The imposter chuckled darkly.

"I just thought you'd like to know," he said. "The plan's still on."

There was a pause as the implications sank in. Then:

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Meet me: same place, same time. Oh, and Hatty, old chum..."

"What?"

"This time, the masks will come off."

With that cryptic message, the Joker cut the call, leaned back in Wayne's chair, and propped Wayne's feet up on the console.

"Ah, to be rich, now the shopping season is here," he sang, and spun the chair around in a full circle. Pressing the intercom, he shouted, "Alfred! I'm going shopping! I'll want a hot bath when I get back—and don't forget the bubbles!"

Laughing to himself, the imposter pulled on Wayne's heavy overcoat and dapper hat, danced jauntily past the Batmoblie, and jumped into Wayne's sleek, black convertible.

"Ooooohhh, I do love the smell of leather," he squeaked happily, slipping the key into the ignition and listening to the engine purr.

High above, Bruce had to clench his teeth to keep from growling.

Closing the convertible's top, the Joker hit the gas and sped down the ramp toward the back exit, shrieks of laughter trailing behind him.

Bruce climbed down from the ledge and took his place at the controls. For a moment, it seemed something was off. Then, he remembered: the Joker was tall and slim, and his fingers were longer than Wayne's. He just needed a moment to adjust his perspective.

It didn't take long. In less than a minute, Bruce was working the controls as if nothing unusual had happened. First, he ran a systems check to make sure the Joker hadn't inserted any dangerous programs. Then, he traced the Joker's last call.

The phone number popped back up on the screen, and beneath it an address.

Tetch Labs.

"So..." he muttered. "This Mr. Hat works for Tetch. I'll have to-"

Something hard, heavy, and blunt slammed down on his head and he felt the room go black. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought he heard Alfred's shaky voice. He remembered the silver sandwich tray...

And then, he was lost to the shadowland of dreams.

_To Be Continued..._


	6. 5

WARNING: The following chapter contains some graphic scenes involving violence and blood. Viewer discretion is advised.

5.

_The boy... The boy was running, his pounding heart keeping time with the slap of his worn sneakers on the grimy pavement... _

Bruce groaned and tossed his head from side to side. The dream was so vivid, so real... He was after him. The man with the silver tooth. The man whose curved knife dripped red, red blood. He'd seen it gleaming, dark in the moonlight, like a harlot's painted smile...

_The real kicker was, he'd been having a good day. Make that a great day. He'd beat the pants off those mobster hoods gambling in the alley behind the mall – beat them at their own crooked game. The winnings had earned him their hate, but bought him a ticket to a matinee comedy double feature – two Laurel and Hardy classics, complete with _Looney Tunes_ shorts—popcorn and a cola, then three deli sandwiches with garlic pickles on the side and two malted milkshakes with enough money left over to fill his bag with groceries for his mom's dinner. For the first time in months, that gnawing pain in his stomach could take a break. And to top it all off, his best friend, Jack, had snuck away from his newest foster home – and his new caretakers didn't even notice. Sixteen 'at risk' kids in a four-room apartment, ranging in age from eight to fourteen, and those two old frauds didn't even bother to learn their names. Just cashed the checks. _

_Jack said it was the best joint he'd ever been stuck in._

_The boy envied Jack. His folks were gone – dead or walked out, Jack had never said. Jack didn't know the fear the boy knew, the responsibility of looking after an addict mother. _

_He'd told Jack about the meth-heads, about the stench that leeched from their wasted bodies. About the terrible fee his mother paid for the hellish chemicals that rotted her teeth and smothered her soul._

_Jack understood. He was one of the few who did. It was a rare thing, this understanding. No pity, no scorn, no judgment. Jack understood, he accepted, and he didn't care._

_The boy admired that. _

"You know your problem, kiddo," _Jack had said, time and again_. "You care. You actually give a flyin' crap. That's what's holdin' you down. You gotta learn what other people do just ain't your problem. Learn that, and you're free."

"Just stop caring. Simple as that."

"Simple as that."

_The boy had looked at him, his eyes wide and vulnerable._

"Do you care about me, Jack?"

_Jack had laughed. _

"Hell no! If you died tomorrow, you know what I'd do?"

"What?"

"I'd take those runnin' shoes of yours and dump your rancid carcass in the river with the rest of the rot and trash. 'Cause that's all we are, when you get down to it. We're all of us dying from the moment we're born. Can't stop it, so why stress? Might as well just take what you can for yourself while you can use it. You get what I'm sayin'? Good. Now, gimme your jacket. I'm cold."

_The boy gave the jacket to him willingly, and the pair spent the rest of the evening behind the arcade, creaming the pierced and tattooed yuppie teens at poker, blackjack, and craps then blowing their winnings on the video games inside._

_When they finally split up, the moon was high and the wind was bitter, but Jack's words still lingered in the boy's mind as he trudged up the stinking stairwell to his apartment._

_The battered, gray door hung open when he got there, but that didn't mean much. He was the only one who ever bothered to lock the apartment. Or to find food. Or to swat the cockroaches away from the sink, or clean his mother's sick off the floor._

"_Ma," he called, dumping his bag on the little round table. "Hey, Mom, I got you some fruit. An' I got some vegetables and eggs, and a can of that corned beef hash you like. Mom?"_

_The sour stench of alcohol and stale sweat pervaded the small apartment. Someone had been there, some man. If it wasn't the landlord, collecting his 'rent', it had to be another one of those empty-eyed slobs with those hungry, leering smiles. _

_The boy wrinkled his nose and pushed through the hanging plastic beads to the dark little closet of a room that held his mom's mattress. The stench in there was heavy and metallic, like nothing he'd ever smelled before._

"_Mom?"_

Bruce gasped and cried out in his sleep.

The boy's mother was dead.

Not just dead... Jack the Ripper dead. Someone had used a knife on her, unzipped her torso and taken...taken...

_A drug mule. They'd had his mother working as a drug mule. _

_Maybe she'd planned a double-cross. Maybe she'd swallowed the drugs and planned a get-away. It didn't matter now. His mother was dead. The drugs were gone. And the boy knew exactly who'd done it. He could almost see him there, moving like a ghost among the blood and shadows. That monster had broken the apartment door, kicked his way into their private haven, then used that awful knife to stab and rip and hack and tear, all the while grinning, grinning with that silver tooth glinting like a mirror in the sun..._

_When the boy came to himself, he was running, running down the stairs, slipping on the black ice by the building's back entrance. He slammed into the dumpster and something came loose, landing on the cracked pavement beside him._

_Cards. A box of playing cards. And, on the front, the Joker's garishly painted face was smeared with something sticky._

_Blood?_

_Moving carefully, the boy climbed onto a wooden crate and peered inside the gaping dumpster. A light layer of snow covered the melange inside, keeping the worst of the stink at bay. _

_But, the shape beneath the snow was unmistakable. It was a boy, about his age._

_A boy wearing _his_ jacket._

"_Jack..."_

_So, that drug-lord hadn't been satisfied just killing his mother. He'd tried to get rid of him too._

_But, he'd missed. He'd gotten the right jacket, but the wrong boy. That should have been him sprawled in that dumpster, broken, bloodied and torn. Not Jack._

_Not Jack._

_And now, he was running again, running through the dark, slippery streets, too frightened—too angry to shiver. _

_The boy sucked in breath after harsh, rasping breath, fighting to regroup, to brace himself for the fight to come. He needed somewhere to lay low, to hide out, to plan his revenge on the man with the silver tooth._

_His mother had always hated shelters. He held no illusions about his origins. He knew about the attack in the night, knew why she spat at the do-gooder hypocrites with their lying eyes and empty smiles. But right now, braving a shelter seemed a better option than waiting for that drug-lord to realize his mistake. _

_Or, maybe not. There might be another option, if he could just remember where..._

_"Take what you can while you can use it, right Jack?" he said, and squeezed the blood-stained box of cards in his hand.  
_

_A hopped turnstile and four stops later, a door opened and a woman clinging to the tail end of middle-age peered through the crack._

"_Which one are you, then?" she rasped._

"_Jack," the boy said, mimicking his friend's cocky stance as he strode into the house. "Jack Napier. Check your roster if you don't remember."_

"_Right," the old woman said gruffly. "The comedian."_

"_Say, old lady," the boy called, catching her before she could stump back down the hall. "You got anything to eat in this house?"_

"_You know the rules," she grunted. "You miss supper, you get nothin' 'till breakfast. An' you're to keep your voice down after lights out. That hollerin's enough to wake the dead."_

"_As you please," the boy said, and started to laugh. It started as a low cackle but quickly grew into a full-out laughing fit. _

_The old woman threw up her arms and stumped back to bed. _

_Jack laughed until he was sick in the sink, then sank to the floor and laughed some more. _

_That silver-toothed creep thought he'd sent a message, but the joke was on him. Now, it was up to Jack to deliver the punch line. And what a punch line it would be! Hee hee hee!_

To Be Continued...

Next Time: The Mad Hatter makes an appearance and a scheme takes shape. Stay Tuned!


	7. 6

6.

Cold rain pelted down from the overcast sky. The man under Bruce Wayne's hat scowled up at the clouds from the back of Wayne's somber black limo.

"Doesn't the sun ever shine in Gotham?" he said.

"Only in the winter, sir," Alfred quipped from the driver's seat. "But then, we have the snow."

The man in the back chuffed a short laugh.

"Why Alfred, you surprise me. I didn't know you had a sense of humor."

Alfred glanced at him in the rear view mirror, his expression creased with concern.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this meeting, Master Bruce?" he said. "After the Joker's break-in last night-"

"A break-in you handled with your usual aplomb. Hitting that clown over the head with a serving tray – classic!"

"Perhaps, sir," Alfred said. "But the fact remains, the Joker did slip away before you returned, despite all my efforts to hold him. To tell the truth, I don't think he was truly conscious of where he was. He seemed most out of sorts, sir, babbling quite incoherently. Something about a boy. And a man with a silver tooth. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not much."

"No," Alfred said, and sighed. "I suppose we shall never fully understand the demons that drive that nefarious clown."

"I wouldn't worry, Alfred," his passenger said. "I'm sure that joker will turn up again before long."

"Actually, Master Bruce, that is precisely what does worry me."

A buzz of the intercom and a short exchange later, the limo squeezed its way through the security gate and up the curving driveway to the entrance of Tech Labs – a medium-sized industrial complex built into what had once been a chemical plant specializing in developing fabric dyes. The crumbling brick, steel and concrete buildings had been closed down years before after being cited for multiple environmental infractions and had now become part of Gotham's ten-year rejuvenation plan funded, in part, by Wayne Enterprises.

A glass door slid open and two people scurried out into the rain to meet the car. In the lead strode a striking woman with blue eyes and long, sandy blonde hair. She wore a lavender business suit with a knee-length skirt and practical, rubber-soled shoes. Behind her slunk a slight, skimpy man with a shock of hair like a windblown haystack. His suit was blue, and it hung on his frame like an oversized bag, as if trying to hide the fact that his head was far too large for his shoulders. Slumped under his umbrella, his hooded eyes kept shooting nervous glances at his pocket watch.

"Mr. Wayne!" the woman said, holding out her umbrella to shield the passenger as he climbed out of the car. "We're so happy you could make it, and in this awful weather. I know we've talked over the phone, but I'm Alice Steele, and this is Jervis Tetch."

"A pleasure," the man said with Wayne's reserved smile. The woman blushed, and his smile widened.

"And Dr. Tetch," he said, holding out his big, blunt hand. "You seem a bit fidgety. Were you expecting someone else?"

"Huh...what? Uh, no," the man said in a soft voice, stuffing his watch in his baggy pocket before giving Wayne's hand a quick shake. "No, I just... I mean..."

"Jervis, we shouldn't keep Mr. Wayne out in the rain like this," said Dr. Steele. "Please, sir, if you'll step this way."

"Lead on," he said, following her through the sliding door. "But, please, you don't have to be so formal. Why don't you call me Bruce? Then I can call you Alice."

"All right...Bruce."

The woman giggled, then blushed and quickly looked away.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne—I mean, Bruce... I'm so sorry," she stammered, struggling to close her umbrella "Oh, you must think I'm-"

"Never apologize for a little laughter," he said, taking the umbrella and closing it in one swift, graceful motion. He twirled it around, then handed it back to her. "I've found that too many people nowadays fall into the bad habit of taking themselves too seriously. Isn't that right, Tetchy, old top?"

Dr. Tetch looked up from his pocket watch, but his irritated expression shifted when he caught the look in the man's eyes. The man winked at him, and Tetch swallowed hard, stuffing the watch back in his pocket.

"I-I'm not Tetchy-"

"You sound rather tetchy to me," the man quipped.

"No, I'm not," he said, mostly to save face in front of Dr. Steele. "It's Dr. Tetch. I'd appreciate it if you'd please address me as Dr. Tetch."

"Case in point. A **_chap_**eau with no sense of humor," the man said, and offered Dr. Steele his arm. She hesitated a moment, then took it willingly, leading him through a long, twisting maze of tiled corridors. Tetch trailed after them, glaring at the man with an uncomfortable sort of amazement.

"So, microchips," their guest said as they walked. "How delightfully technical. However, Wayne Enterprises does have a pretty expensive R&D department of its own to keep up. Can you give me five good reasons why I should invest my hard-earned cash in your," he smiled down at her, "charming company."

Dr. Steele blushed again, but quickly regained control of herself.

"Well, Bruce, I believe that when you see what we've been working on here, you'll have more than merely five reasons," she said. "The impulse control experiments we've publicized so far are really just the beginning of a much grander project. But, while I run the day-to-day aspects of this project, Jervis is the real brains behind it all. He's the one who should explain."

"Thank you, Alice," Tetch said.

They stopped in front of a long, glass window overlooking an extensive laboratory. Complicated machines and busy lab tables filled the cavernous space, and everywhere, technicians in white clean suits bustled around, checking and tinkering and maintaining.

"Well, as you can see, this here is the heart of our little operation," Tetch said, speaking to their guest, but keeping his eyes fixed on Dr. Steele. "The idea behind our work is to give our customers the ultimate gaming experience. With our microchips, we can stream data directly into a client's mind, creating a virtual reality unparalleled in its realism. And, when the game is over, the gamer is eased gently back into the real world, just as simply as if he'd turned off his television set. Forget 3D. Forget holograms. These chips will revolutionize movies, television, games—even books, as users will get to live the adventures of their favorite storytime heroes, all from the safety of their own comfy armchairs."

The man in Bruce Wayne's business suit paid close attention – not to the spiel, but to Tetch himself. And, when the tour was over, he made a point of publicly asking Dr. Steele out for dinner and a night on the town—an invitation she readily accepted.

Once she had left them, Tetch slammed the conference room door and stalked over to her date.

"I thought you already had a girl," he snarled at the taller man. "Why must you put the moves on mine?"

"Funny," the man said. "She didn't act like she was your girl."

Tetch fumed, too furious to speak. The man shot him a wicked smile.

"If you feel so strongly about it, why not just implant one of your patented little microchips in her head? Make her forget all about me."

"I...I couldn't do that," Tetch said. "Not to Alice. She...she'd become-"

"That's right, Hatty," the man said. "Just another unthinking pawn in our little game."

Tetch snarled again.

"No. Not her. She stays out of this."

The man laughed; a cruel, frightening sound.

"What do you want, Joker?" Tetch snapped. "I already sold you two of my finest creations – and look what you've done with them! Imprinted your twisted thought patterns on Gotham's most expendable playboy? This wasn't the plan we talked about!"

"No, it's much better," the Joker said with a grin. "Don't you see? I know these chips of yours from the inside, now. I know what they can do. And, with the might of Wayne's Enterprise at my back, my little joke on this city will pay off better than I ever could have imagined. Because, you see, I know Wayne's secrets. And Wayne, in turn, knows Batman's."

"Batman?" Tetch said. "What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Why, his pushy presence is vital to my scheme! Can you picture it, Mr. Hat?" he exclaimed. "The citizens of Gotham, let loose from their inhibitions...just in time for summer. We'll tear the mask off this city—reveal its true, rotten core—just as I-as Wayne-publicly tear the mask off of the Batman. Once they see the mug he's hiding, I predict a riot. There'll be no one left for them to turn to. No one to save them from themselves. It'll be the greatest punchline since, oh, I don't know when! We'll top all the greats with this one!"

"And then?" Tetch demanded.

"And then," the Joker said, "do whatever you want. I don't want their minds. I don't even want their money. I'm just here to send a message. The kind that'll blow the lid off this town for good!"

As the Joker erupted into laughter, Tetch's expression turned thoughtful. If the Joker's plan worked, Gotham could be left shattered. Desperate. They would turn to him, to the imaginary worlds he could offer, for an escape.

"Yes," he said, starting to chuckle himself. "Yes, I see. I could give each citizen of Gotham his own private Wonderland! And Alice... My dear Alice. At last, she'll understand what's in my heart. She'll join me willingly, or I'll see her crawl to me on her knees. Finally, finally, the Mad Hatter will get the respect he so rightfully deserves... _Ha ha ha ha HEE HEE ho ho ho!_"

The sharp crash of shattering glass turned the wicked laughter into startled gulps and gasps. A dark form swung through the window and landed with a roll on the long, polished conference table.

Tetch dove for the coat closet, but the Joker stayed put, the cold, gleeful grin that appeared so strange on Wayne's stern face quickly metamorphosing into a grimace of startled apprehension that looked surprisingly genuine.

"B-batman?" he said, all innocent confusion. "But, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"I'll say something is wrong," the caped intruder growled, grabbing Wayne by the vest and pulling him close enough that he could see streaks in the flesh-colored make-up on the masked man's chin. "Where's Mr. Hat?"

_To Be Continued..._


	8. 7

7.

Wayne ran his finger over his assailant's lean jaw, revealing a stripe of chalky white flesh. He wiped the skin-colored makeup on the man's caped shoulder and smiled a wicked smile.

"Poor Bats," he said. "Feeling a little pale?"

His assailant pulled him closer, snarling with yellowed teeth.

Wayne turned his head away.

"Eew-yuch," he said. "I always meant to try those whitening strips, but it's tough keeping up with dental care when those Arkham drones don't even let you have a toothbrush. Oh well. Looks like it's your problem now!"

"Enough," the Batman growled. "Tell me where to find Mr. Hat, or I'll-"

"You'll what? Smash your own jaw?" Wayne laughed. "I don't think so, Batsy. Face it. There's nothing you can do to me. No threats that will stick. In fact-"

A knock at the door, and the masked man was gone, vanished, like a ghost, or a sudden gust of wind.

The man in Wayne's suit straightened his wrinkled vest and called out, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Alice," the woman said, opening the door and stepping into the room. "I heard a crash from down the hallway and – oh! The window!"

"Yes," Wayne said, shooting the broken glass a petulant look, as if blaming the window for its broken state. "We had a little problem with a rogue bat. How it got in, I'll never know, but Wayne's Enterprise will be happy to pay for the damage. Ah, Tetchy, old top!" he cried, draping a companionable arm around the rattled scientist. "Come out of the closet at last, have you?"

The Hatter's eyes spat pure hate at the larger man, but the Joker's friendly facade never cracked as he transferred his cordial smile to Alice. Alice blushed.

"Well, um, thank you, Bruce," she said. "And I do apologize for this. I'll call animal control right away, and-"

"That won't be necessary, my dear," he said. "The bat's well on its way to his belfry by now. And, I believe, we have a dinner date scheduled...?"

"Oh, but I still have another half-hour before-"

"What's half an hour, more or less. Tetchy can hold down the fort, isn't that right, old hat?"

The Mad Hatter gnashed his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't break. "Actually, I wanted to talk with you-"

"Good, then. Have your people call my people. Dr. Steele, I forgot to ask. Do you prefer Japanese or Italian?"

Alice giggled happily and took the Joker's hand, leaving Dr. Tetch alone in the wrecked conference room.

Jervis listened until he could no longer hear the echo of their voices in the hall, then strode forward and flipped the conference table over with a roar.

"Double-dealing clown-faced bastard!" he snarled. "Consider our partnership dissolved!"

* * *

Harley Quinn touched up her black lipstick and winked at her reflection.

"Lookin' good, Harley-girl," she said, and pranced out the door to the main room of the hideout.

Two of the Joker's henchmen, Rocco and Henshaw (named after two side-kick characters from _The Phil Silvers Show_, one of the greatest American comedy shows ever made), sat on the battered sofa, munching pizza and staring at the beat-up old TV. Harley hopped onto the sofa's overstuffed arm and snatched a steaming slice from the box before Rocco could reach it.

"Ha!" she crowed, and stuffed the melty cheese in her mouth. "So, whatchoo guys watchin'?" she mumbled with her mouth full.

"_Halloween_ marathon," Rocco said, shooting her a dirty look as he settled for a smaller slice with fewer toppings.

Henshaw laughed and nudged his companion.

"Should be right up her alley, eh Roc?" he said, and smiled a leering smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harley demanded.

"Can't you just see it, Hench?" Rocco laughed. "Harley and Michael Myers? That bone-white face? Just her type!"

"And such a long knife!" Henshaw added, and doubled over with guffaws.

Harley rolled her eyes.

"Jerks," she said. "You two cannot be comparin' that freak to _my_ puddin'. Even forgettin' for the moment that this mask-wearin' mute's a _fictional _creation, Michael Myers is a _child!_ My Mr. J's all man."

"What are you talkin' about, a child?" Rocco said. "The dude's, like, seven feet, easy."

"You poor, ignorant creeps," Harley said from her contorted crouch on the sofa's arm. "I may be a certified loon, but before I earned that piece of paper, I managed to collect a few others. One of those being a degree in criminal psychology. An' it doesn't take a qualified shrink to see what was obvious from the very first movie in that endless franchise."

"What's that?" Henshaw asked.

"This Michael Myers guy never grew up!" she cried. "Sure, his body aged, but in his head he's always the same enraged little boy who slashed up his sister when she didn't take him trick-or-treating. Now, my Mr. J," Harley said, a dreamy fog intensifying the madness in her eyes. "That's what I call a fully realized personality. Deep and layered with so many twisty turns he can always keep me guessin'. When my man comes for me, he knows just who he is, an' where he's goin'."

"Yeah, but he doesn't come for you, does he," Rocco said. "You always break yourself out of that nuthatch. Then, you go find him!"

"That's beside the point!" Harley shrilled. "I'm sayin' my Mr. J's all man, an' you two lunkheads can just-"

The door to the hideout slammed open, and Harley jumped to her feet with a delighted squeal...that quickly turned to confusion when her pudding stumbled into the light.

"Eeep! Mistah J! Wait...what are you doin' dressed up like the Bat-brain?"

The masked man lifted his head, as if he wanted to speak. He reached out a hand, then collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor. Harley shrieked and dashed to his side.

"Now, that fall just then," Henshaw commented. "That was very Michael Myers."

"Didn't Myers collapse like that in _Halloween 5_?" Rocco asked. "Or was it Four? Or maybe one of those new ones?"

"Shut-up!" Harley snapped. "Can't you two lugnuts see? My puddin's been hurt! Pry your wide loads off that couch and help me get him to the bed!"

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
